A Good Dog
by vanillafluffy
Summary: The waking nightmares and surreality that haven't left Sands alone in the months since being dosed with Dr. Guevara's hallucinogenic cocktail are beginning to take their toll on his sanity. Post-movie AU, slash.


I ask forgiveness from Robert Rodriguez for what I'm about to do to his charecters. I thank the charming and gifted Kerttu (See vanillafluffy's favorite authors for links to her stunning fics.) for allowing me to play in her AU.

The premise here is simply that everything that happened to Sands in the movie after he was drugged in the bar was a particularly fiendish hallucination on his part. His eyes were NOT drilled out, his sight remains intact, he didn't have a shootout or kill Ajedrez because he was tripping his brains out in the back of a car when El found him, shot his captors and got him to safety, sometime in between escaping the Barillo compound and saving the president. Sands has since tracked El down in Guitartown, and the two of them have formed an uneasy partnership. (Did I mention this is slash? Yes, Sands-slash-El, although this episode is mostly angst.)

The waking nightmares and surreality that haven't left Sands alone in the months since being dosed with Dr. Guevara's hallucinogenic cocktail are beginning to take their toll on his sanity.

* * *

A Good Dog

Sands sees himself, from outside himself: a paradox: he is limp with drugs and they hold him down on the counter of the bar while his lover laughs. Silverchrome flash coming closer...he screams as the black-gloved hand calmly pierces his eye with the drill. Pain/fear/helplessnesstears blur the sight in his remaining eye, but he hears the buzzing as the drill comes closer - searing heatpain then the illusion of blackness - but because this is a dream, he hopes, he can see his own face, mouth open as he gasps in shock, the red mess that was his eyes flowing down his cheeks.

His torturer fondles the drill, caressing the bloody prongs that drip with the remains of his sight. And at last the agent understands who has been holding the instrument, and he moans; he has truly lost his mind, because Sands is the one wielding the destroyer - the drill is in his own hands, and he has done this to himself while in the background, not Barillo, but his own face, unbandaged, laughs at the pawn who has been swept from the board.

Although Sands is a restless sleeper, his partner neither attempts to oust him, nor to find another place to slumber. El reaches out when Sands starts awake, whimpering, patting him gently, like a man soothing a dog who whines in slumber beside his armchair.

He is not comforted, but is weary enough to sleep again.

He is smoothing the black gloves onto his hands, their leather as soft as butter. Sometimes, Sands imagines that they have been crafted from skins of his enemies that were taken for trophies. Wearing them, he is Death, the all-powerful. He picks up the eye drill. It is lovingly cleaned after each use so that its next victim will be able to view its twinkling reflection as their final sight. The man lying motionless is not being held down. No screams, pleas or protests come from his lips, only a question: Why? El asks. I did not let them do this to you. Why are you doing it to me?

You should have let them, Sands answers, raising the drill. You've seen too much.

What? What have I seen?

You've seen me naked.

Sands huddles on his side of the bed, curled into a trembling mass, teeth chattering, sickened by his vision. Memory of the look in dream-El's brown eyes accuses him. The disbelief there, the betrayal - his question and its terrible answer...

The mariachi has some inner awareness; even asleep he senses that all is not well. Rolling onto his side, his warm, lean body presses against Sands's back. An arm settles around his waist, El's arm against Sands's arm, mirroring its angle against his waist. Hot moist breath against the back of his neck, and a low snore.

Sleepy, absent-minded affection..._What an idiot_, Sands thinks deperately. _Doesn't he know what I am? _But El does know; that's what frightens him.

Naked. The word horrifies Sands. Not naked as they are now, manflesh unencumbered by clothing, but vulnerable-helpless-needy naked. El knows he is weak. For years, Sands has preserved in his own mind an illusion that he is all-seeing, that he is the ringmaster of his own electric circus, that he cannot fail - but El has seen him fallen, has saved him from the consequences of his failure and El knows the truth. A few months ago, Sands thought he'd never let anyone get close to him again, not ever!

Ajedrez comes to mind...she'd seemed smart and ambitious, the female equivalent of himself. She was drop-dead gorgeous and could fuck like a bunny. How could he _not _be attracted to that? Did he care about her? No, he would've dumped her if a more enticing prospect came along. Which was a long way from drilling her eyes out...but that hadn't happened, not really. That was some sick perversion dreamed up by his drug-riddled subconscious.

Sands cannot seem to catch his breath. Shivering, gasping, his sinuses hurt from an unfamiliar pressure. Never say never...El Mariachi with his matter-of-fact attitude and secretly tender conscience has gotten in close, close enough to know him as no one else ever has, and doesn't seem to care that Sands is a killer with no conscience whatsoever...isn't he?

"Sands?" A soft hiss in his ear. El, as in 'The', is awake.

Violently, Sands contorts to face the other man and buries his face against the Mexican's chest. Hoarse sobs shake him. An inquisitive sound from the mariachi, who gathers Sands into his arms and allows him to weep. Thank God - the God Sands hasn't believed in since he was nine - 'The' asks no questions. He doesn't ask _why_, he merely caresses Sands, lightly patting his back, soothing him with little clucking sounds.

Sands doesn't remember when he last cried. No, he didn't grieve when he got word of his parents' death in a wreck a few months into his CIA training - too much else going on in his life, too bad, so sad. Before that? The skiing accident when he was sixteen? He'd achieved a spectacular compound fracture of his right tibia. First shock, then good painkillers and some illicit vodka smuggled in a mouthwash bottle had taken care of that pain.

The only memory Sheldon Jeffrey Sands has of shedding tears is associated with the funeral for Rascal, his dog. He was nine at the time, which would make it...more than twenty-five years since he last felt bad about anything? The last time he cared about any thing or any one? He shudders. That was when he told God to fuck off, because how could an all-knowing, loving God let a good dog die just from licking up a puddle of antifreeze in the driveway?

Meanwhile, El's strong, deadly hands continue to minister to Sands, fingers combing his shaggy hair, a hand spread wide against his back, patting a slow, rhythmic tattoo. Gagging on the mucus from the bout of weeping, Sands grabs the bedsheet and honks into it, trying to breathe. It's impossible to sob and take in air; his sinuses are draining down his throat and he's sure he's gonna puke any minute.

"Lean your head back," advises El quietly.

Sands does as he's told, closing his eyes because he can't bear to look at the other man. He draws in deep lungfuls of air, trying to calm himself, but the cat is out of its mental bag, and it's scratching the hell out of him. '_Why are you doing this to me?'_ _Because I hate the way you make me look at myself. Because you have something I don't even believe in, and I'm so jealous of it I could spit. _Everything Sands has believed about himself, about his life, is crumbling away. Deriding the idea of having a soul, he realizes now how wrong he was: it is immense, a vast, echoing wasteland. Where he was once certain, now there is only confusion. There is a gun under the pillows, and if his arms weren't pinned between them, he'd grab it, eat it, deep throat the barrel and take the bullet into his miserable skull without hesitation or second thoughts, fade to black.

He _can _breathe better this way. He doesn't envy El his faith - the trappings of religion are alien to Sands - but a long time ago, Sands had that quality that El has managed to retain. Sands long ago discarded his own conscience in between numerous Machiavellian power plays. El still has integrity - Sands knows, without doubt, that 'The' will never sell him out, betray or back-stab him. This is one time when never means never. He doesn't rule out the possibility that the mariachi may shoot him at some future date, but if so, there will be a valid reason, not a carefully rationalized whim like the ones Sands has yielded to so often...

The night's images are all too fresh in his mind. He's had his share of psych classes; the significance of the drill in his hands isn't lost on him. _I did it to myself_, he thinks, choking on his own tears. _What did I dream? 'I set them up and watch them fall?' I set _myself _up. And I'm falling, and it's a long way to the bottom..._

When his eyes open, the morning light streams in through the bedroom window. The bed is half-empty. Sands is alone. All his foolish dreams seem absurd in daylight. A song lilts through the ruined mission as sure fingers coax melody from wire and wood. He goes prowling, looking for the mariachi, ready to pick a fight so his lover will know nothing has changed, that Sands is not soft, and he'd better think again if he thinks Sands has suddenly turned into a pushover.

He searches for quite a while; the music is elusive, and the sound carries oddly so that he's not quite sure which way it's coming from. Finally, he locates the Mexican and his guitar in one of the deserted rooms. 'The' is shirtless, and Sands gazes at his bare back for a moment. It's tempting enough that he considers skipping the fight and going straight to wild animal sex...

When he places a hand on El's shoulder, Sands feels a chill go through him. The tawny skin, usually as warm as the Mexican sunlight, is icy.

I couldn't find my shirt, says 'The', tilting his face toward Sands and revealing hollow, empty eyeholes.

Sands bolts upright in bed. No-no-no-no-no... He is alone, and the panic that floods over him makes his head swim. He listens. No music.

Hurriedly, he throws back the sheet. His hand encounters a damp spot. He finds himself hoping that it's last night's snot, confirming reality, and not a phantom blob of jizz. He pulls on jeans and a shirt, toes his way into a well-worn pair of loafers and begins searching for El...again. The Mexican is in the space that serves as their kitchen and dining room, preparing coffee by the aroma of it. His back is to the door, and he's not wearing a shirt.

Sands's heart begins to pound in double time. What is he going to do if El has no eyes?

Wake up for real, he hopes.

"That smells good," he says, summoning what's left of his courage and walking across the kitchen.

El turns and looks at him. Everything is as it should be. Even the fleeting scrutiny Sands receives is comforting. 'The' cares.

Without thinking about it, because premeditation would mean he'd thought about it, would be a sign of weakness, Sands puts an arm around El's waist, rests his face against the other man's shoulder for a moment. Not long enough for the startled El to embrace him in return, not long enough, not nearly long enough...

Sands fixes himself a mug of coffee. Black, two sugars. He's aware of the mariachi regarding him thoughtfully. Wants to say stop, don't look at me, but he's afraid reality may skew at the words.

"How are you feeling?" 'The's' velvety tenor voice is concerned.

Hot coffee sloshes over the side of the mug. "Fucking lousy, how do you think I feel? I haven't slept through one single night since November with all the twisted shit going on in my head. Almost five goddam months! Half the time, I don't know if I'm awake or asleep! I'm losing my freaking mind!"

"Maybe we should get you to a doctor."

"A doctor?" Sands's voice lifts into hysteria. "How do you think I got this way? That's not going to help, nothing's going to help - " He stops himself, fighting back fear and more tears. What is happening to him? Maybe he truly is teetering over the abyss of Real Crazy. Not just the clever sociopathology he's been toying with for so long, but I'm-not-in-charge-anymore crazy. Nothing frightens him more than the thought of being a passenger in his own body, subject to the irrational actions of a brain he no longer governs. He, who has always been a genius, a master puppeteer at the strings - not in control of his own mind? This is the ultimate terror.

'The' reaches out to him, slowly, giving him time to pull away. 'The' knows he doesn't usually like affection. "Sheldon..."

Hearing the name from his childhood breaks past his shields. Sands lets the mug bang onto the counter and surrenders his defiance. "Nothing's gonna help," he repeats. "I wasted it. I wasted my life. What am I gonna do?"

Even without a shirt on, El radiates warmth. Sands clings. The yawning darkness that wants to inhale his sanity can't get him here. A memory from his college years surfaces: a girl Sands slept with who wanted to cuddle with him afterward. He'd laughed and sent her away, her feelings hurt. Guilt nips at him. He's long-since forgotten her name. Probably because there were so many of her.

Now as his partner holds him, Sands wishes he could change the past and give them all what he so desperately needs.

'The' is patient. They stand that way for quite some time, motionless save for the gentle back-patting of El's hands and a slight rocking. That comforts crying babies; a man who has lost his own child understands this. After a while, it seems to comfort Sands as well.

"You'll get over this," says 'The'. "It takes a long time for certain kinds of chemicals to get out of your system."

Sands wants to have faith that his lover is right.

Needs to believe that his craziness will, given time, go away.

Prays that he will not end up as Rascal did, a victim of some careless God.


End file.
